


That Hamilton Boy

by Kaydon



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Foster Care, Found Family, Gen, George Washington is a Dad, Hurt/Comfort, Major Illness, Neurodiverse Alexander Hamilton, Neurodiversity, Protective George Washington, Protective John Laurens, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25479814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaydon/pseuds/Kaydon
Summary: In which decorated war hero Major General George Washington, who just might become the first independent president in the history of the United States, is one hundred percent ready to throw down in the street with the next person he hears complain about “that Hamilton boy,” and the boy in question is either fighting anyone and anything who looks at him wrong or lost in the sprawling mansion of his thoughts.A modern AU in which the Washingtons juggle raising a neurodiverse foster kid while also running a presidential campaign. The press staff and secret service just may have their work cut out for them.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, George Washington/Martha Washington
Comments: 62
Kudos: 194





	1. In which George meets Alexander

**Author's Note:**

> This work is fully outlined to be about eight chapters. Tags may be updated as I go.

He woke to an incessant ringing. “Martha turn if off.” The ringing continued. Major General George Washington couldn’t help the groan that escaped him. Right – Martha was out of town. He fumbled blindly for the nightstand, only reaching his phone as the ringing stopped. George squinted down at the screen. _03:57_ stared back at him. In the moment it took him to collect his thoughts enough to wonder who in the world was calling him just before four in the morning, his phone started ringing again.

“’Lo,” he answered sleepily. He hadn’t made it to bed until nearly one, and his ability to wake command-ready seemed to have abandoned him in the relative safety of his bedroom.

As soon as he heard the voice on the other end of the phone, however, he shot upright, the fog of sleep clearing instantly from his mind. “General Washington, I’m so sorry to bother you so early.” He pulled the phone from his ear and looked down to confirm. It was Hercules Mulligan – a friend of Martha’s and, more importantly, the DCFS social worker they had worked with while fostering children before George’s last deployment.

“No its fine, what can I do for you Mr. Mulligan?”

George could almost hear Mulligan hesitate through the phone. “Look, I know it’s been a while but I’ve got a twelve year old in the backseat of my car and if you can’t take him as an emergency placement then I’m going to have to drop him in Juvie. No one will have him.”

George closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. It had been nearly two years since any foster children had stayed with the Washingtons, and Mulligan had said no one would take him. George was fine with babies or self-sufficient teens – but a school-aged child no one would take meant a likely damaged kid, and Martha was really the one who was better at this sort of thing. On the other hand, Martha’s disappointment with him if he let a child be lost to Juvenile Detention when he could have been safe in their home would be topped only by his own. Then again it couldn’t hurt to just hear what Mulligan had to say and let Martha decide when she got home. Two days in Juvie probably wouldn’t hurt the boy. “What’s his story?”

“He’s, well we aren’t really sure what he is actually. He’s not exactly normal, mentally. As far as we know he’s from the Caribbean. Mom died, father never even knew he had a kid. He lived with a cousin until the cousin shot himself. He has bounced around from home to home for about a year. His last foster mom called me a few hours ago asking me to pick him up from the hospital. The other boys in the home beat the shit out of him.” Washington was silent. Mulligan went on. “Look General, I’m not going to lie, he’s not the easiest child in the world. He seems intelligent enough but he doesn’t speak much and sometimes its hard to tell how much he really tracks. He seems to antagonize people everywhere he goes and putting him in a home with other kids right now is not going to be safe for anyone. I'm trying to find a more permanent solution but that could be a while and I really don’t think Juvie would be good for him.”

Well shit. There really was only one option. “Yeah, okay, how far away are you?”

George pulled himself out of bed, got dressed and brushed his teeth. He went down the hall to the guest bedroom. He opened the door and sighed – this wasn’t going to work. A coat of dust covered everything, and the room was faintly musty from being closed off for so long. George couldn't help but think the condition of the room mirrored his condition as a parent. He took a steadying breath and reminded himself that the boy would be safer with him than in lockup. It was only four in the morning and the boy had spent the night at the ER. He would probably need to sleep. He could buy a couple hours to mentally prepare while he was sleeping, but for now the guest room needed far more cleaning and airing out then George could commit to on two and a half hours of sleep himself. Mulligan would be here any minute. With another sigh, he decided to strip his own bed and put on a fresh set of sheets. He finished just as the doorbell rang.

George opened the door and shook Mulligan’s hand. Behind him was a boy, short and slight of build, with his left arm in a brace. His head was down, and he seemed to be muttering at the ground. George could see the beginnings of bruises on his face and shoulder, where his too-large shirt slipped down. George waved them in. Mulligan handed him two grocery bags of clothes and a bag from a pharmacy. He motioned the boy inside. “This is Alexander Hamilton. Alexander, this is George Washington."

To the surprise of both adults, Alexander looked up briefly at his name before his gaze returned to the ground. His right hand twitched several times in an odd looping motion. “Here are his things and medications. There are instructions in the bag. Look General, thank you for taking him on such short notice. I’ve got to get home to my own boys. I’ll call later and we can talk more then.” Mulligan then turned to the boy. “The Washingtons are going to take good care of you Alexander. I will speak to you soon.”

Mulligan patted the boy on the shoulder and left. George was relieved to see that the boy did not flinch away – that was at least one thing he would not have to worry about. Alexander did not move at all from his spot as the front door closed. A long minute stretched by, the only sound the light murmuring coming from the boy that George could not make out and the distant whir of the furnace. “Alexander?” No response. George kneeled down, eye level with the boy. He hesitated and, not for the first time, wished his wife were home. “Son, do you want to be called Alexander or Alex? Or maybe something else?”

The boy finally looked up. George noted with a small amount of alarm that, instead of meeting his eyes, the boy was very firmly looking at his left ear. Alexander held up one finger and quickly put it back down. “You want to be called Alexander?” The boy nodded, still staring at George’s ear. His skin was very pale, and he was trembling slightly all over. George could feel the alarm swelling up inside him. He had no problem staring down an enemy combatant but this tiny trembling pre-teen – this terrified him. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.” Hopefully the boy would sleep long enough for him to freak out in private.

Alexander followed George, who carried the boy’s belongings. “We need to clean and air out the room that will be yours. This room belongs to me and my wife, but I’ve put clean sheets on the bed so you can sleep here for now, okay?” There was no sign that the boy at the door had even heard him, and George could feel the panic rising higher. He swallowed it back down. “Come lay down Alexander.”

He did as instructed, walking to the bed and lying down fully clothed. George reached down to remove his shoe. Alexander jerked his leg up and out of George’s grip, eyes wild. George froze. Alexander’s right hand was waving through the air in that strange looping motion again. “Okay, you’re okay, I’m sorry son.” George brought both his hands into Alexander’s field of vision then he slowly lowered one back towards Alexander’s feet. “I just want to take off your shoes so you can be more comfortable, okay?”

For a moment George thought he would have to abandon the attempt, but to his surprise Alexander slowly nodded, his eyes fixed on the hand George still held in the air. Without moving the hand Alexander was fixated on, George used his other hand to slowly pull off the boy’s shoes. When he was done the boy relaxed back down into the pillow. “I’m going to pull the blanket up now.” George told him. Alexander nodded again. After a few minutes the boy’s hand stilled and then his eyes drifted closed. George got back to his feet and backed slowly from the room. When he reached the hall, he pulled the door almost shut and retreated one door down to his office. He took a few deep breaths until he could feel his heart slow back to normal, then he stretched out as much as possible under a blanket on the small couch and closed his eyes. There was nothing going on that couldn’t wait until the afternoon.

George woke far earlier than he intended to. The sun was just coming up over the horizon, and it took him a moment to figure out what had woken him – a whimpering noise from his bedroom next door. As soon as it registered, he jumped up and reached the bedroom door in only a few bounding steps. “Alexander!?” The boy was half sitting, half lying on the bed with his eyes squeezed closed and his hand waving in the air again. A series of pathetic noises were escaping his mouth and each one seemed to distress him more. “Alexander what’s wrong?” The boy did not react. George watched him for a moment, then with a start he realized something – Alexander was not waving his hand in the air. He was trying to write something. George ran back to his office and grabbed the first pen and notebook – a journal in which he had only used the first few pages – that he found.

Returning to the bedroom, he slipped the pen in the boy’s right hand and placed the journal on his lap. The boy’s eyes flew open. _Where am I? What happened? Where am I?_ Words appeared on the paper in an elegant cursive at breathtaking speed. The two phrases repeated half a dozen times each before George touched a finger to Alexander’s hand, stopping him. “You’re at my home. Mr. Mulligan dropped you off early this morning. Do you remember me?”

_No. I’m sorry._

“No, it’s fine, son. Nothing to be sorry for. My name is George Washington. You were very tired and we only spent a few minutes together before you went to sleep.”

Just like last time, when the boy heard the name he brought his eyes up to George’s ear. His eyes flicked to the picture of George in his dress uniform on the wall behind him, then back to his ear. _General?_

George did not deny it. _Your Excellency_.

George snorted lightly. “Yes, that is what some people called me during the war.” To his amazement, Alexander smiled at him. Or really at his ear, but George figured that was probably as good as he could hope for. “Are you thirsty?” Alexander nodded. “What would you like?”

_Water? Or milk?_

George smiled at him. “Sure thing, bud. Hang tight here for a minute okay?” On his way to the kitchen George considered the exchange. Mulligan had told him that they weren’t sure how much Alexander tracked what was happening around him. It didn’t seem right to George. Alexander certainly was aware enough of his surroundings and of world events to piece together that he was in the home of a war hero just from his name and a picture. And his written replies were appropriate to the conversation George was having. He just didn’t seem to want to speak. George poured a glass of milk – the calories would surely do the tiny boy some good – and considered Mulligan’s words from the night before – he’s not exactly normal, he doesn’t really speak. No wonder no one wanted the boy. Neurodiverse children could be difficult at the best of times, but this one had also been repeatedly subjected to trauma. And if no one else had realized the boy was trying to write, he had also been unable to communicate.

George returned to the room and handed him the glass. Alexander handed him the journal in return. _I had a bracelet at the last home. Did Mr. Mulligan bring it?_ Was written on the bottom of the page.

George tried to keep the surprise off his face – in the pages between their last conversation and this question, Alexander had scribbled out many details of his military career and, George noticed, had written and circled _Probably safe here_ in the middle of one of the pages. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t see anything like that?” Alexander’s face fell slightly. “I’ll ask him though. It’s possible no one realized it was yours when they packed up your things from the house.”

Alexander nodded slowly. “Would you like to watch TV while I make something for breakfast?” Another nod. They went out to the living room. George set Alexander up on the couch with the remote and opened Netflix for him. When he returned with two plates of eggs and toast, he found Alexander fifteen minutes into the last thing George had been had been watching himself – Ken Burn’s Civil War documentary – and he wondered if the boy was genuinely interested or just trying to pick something he thought would please George. He handed Alexander a plate and got a small smile in return.

They passed a half hour in a comfortable silence, the voices of the narrators washing over them. A soft clattering brought George back to the present. Alexander’s eyes were closed. The fork had fallen from his fingers to the floor. George decided he would be more comfortable in the bed. After carrying the boy upstairs and situating him under the blankets he took a quick picture and sent it to his wife, then settled himself into an armchair so he could be close in case Alexander woke in a panic again.

 _Meet Alexander Hamilton. I like this one._ He closed his eyes and was asleep before Martha could reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to create a world where other people can play as well. With that being said, if at any point in the story you either want to write a scene yourself or have a specific prompt for a scene, let me know in a comment. Maybe we can get a whole collection going :)


	2. In which George gets a nickname

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day two of Alexander at the Washington household.

Martha Washington couldn’t help but smile at her colleagues across the breakfast table. Traveling half way across the county for a legal conference was less of a chore when your colleagues could be counted among your friends. Abigail Adams, her long-time partner, was only a few years younger than herself and always seemed to thrive when away from home. Martha could understand but not relate. George was a strong man with a lion’s heart, but he was also unafraid to let his wife shine very much apart from him. John Adams by contrast relied on Abigail in a way that would have left Martha felling smothered in her position. Their youngest colleague, recent graduate and new attorney Angelica Schuyler had a mind and a mouth with no match in their office. Though Martha was nearly twice her age, she could foresee them becoming good friends. When her phone buzzed in her pocket she thought nothing of it. As was usual when either she or George was away from home, it was likely just him checking in for the morning.

What she found on the phone was thoroughly unusual however, and she felt her eyebrows rise of their own accord. It was a picture of a small boy tucked in her bed and dead to the world. There was a large bruise on his forehead and his long hair was an absolute mess. His mouth was slightly open. As she studied the picture another text come through. _Meet Alexander Hamilton. I like this one._

“Martha, everything alright?” Both Abigail and Angelica were looking at her with concerned looks on their faces.

She handed Abigail the phone by way of explanation. Both women looked at it for a moment before Martha spoke with a shrug. “It seems George acquired a child while I was away. It must be a foster boy but it has been years since we’ve had anyone.”

Angelica gaped at her. “You don’t find it a bit strange that your husband just acquired a child without telling you?”

Martha shrugged. “Not really. I’m sure there was a good reason. In fact George was pretty adamant when he got home that he wasn’t interested in fostering anymore, so the circumstances must have been desperate for him to agree.”

“Alexander Hamilton,” Abigail rolled the name off her tongue, elongating the syllables as she spoke. “Big name for such a tiny kid.”

“Yeah he can’t be much older than my sister.” Angelica added. “They’re so strange when they’re little.”

From there the conversation shifted to the subject of the upcoming presentations they would listen to that day. As they walked to the convention hall, Martha considered the text again. _I like this one_. George had said. Though he was a great caretaker – always kind, supportive where he could be, calm and appropriate – Martha always thought of him as emotionally stunted and he had never before claimed to actually like one of the children in their care. There had been no hint of the boy when Martha spoke to him last night. What could have happened in just a few short hours to endear this boy to her normally aloof husband? She shot back a quick text and grabbed a cup of coffee to get her through the lecture.

XXX

When George woke again it was nearly noon. He glanced at the bed, where Alexander was still sleeping soundly, now with a string of drool at the corner of his mouth. He looked to his phone, where he saw he had a string of missed texts from his wife.

_Big name for a little kid. What happened?_

_You’ve never “liked one” before. Kid of someone you know?_

_George?_

_I’m guessing you had a bit of a long night? Anything I can do to help from here?_

_There’s a flight I can catch in three hours if you need me now._

That last text was only a few minutes old. He quickly fired off a reply, _No need – call you shortly, just going to grab a shower before he wakes up_ , and stood quietly while stretching limbs sore from several hours in the chair. He picked up the journal and pen and set them next to Alexander’s head, so that the boy would see them as soon as he opened his eyes should he wake up alone.

After a shower quick enough to make his old drill sergeant proud George took a moment to peek into the bedroom – Alexander hadn’t moved an inch – and then called his wife from the office. She answered on the second ring. “Hey sweetheart.”

At the sound of his wife’s voice, all of the tension and alarm he had been pushing aside since the 4 am wake up call rose to the surface. “Hey.” He croaked out.

There was a slight intake of breath on the other end of the phone then, “Oh, George,” and suddenly he was crying in earnest.

Martha said nothing while he worked through the rare display of emotions. “I’m sorry Martha, I know you have questions.” He walked her through the events of the morning, pacing restlessly around his office. He told her what he knew about Alexander. As he did, he felt himself growing angry. “All Hercules told me is that he can’t talk and doesn’t understand what people say to him, but he understands perfectly. I don’t understand how no one ever noticed he was trying to write? Martha he wrote seven pages – seven detailed pages – on my military career, and decided he was safe here, all in the five minutes it took me to get him a glass of milk. This boy is smart, but he’s been trapped in his own mind for god knows how long!”

“He’s really made an impression on you, hasn’t he?”

George ran a hand through his hair. “Yes.” He sat down again. “At first I was just thinking that a kid who just got the shit beat out of him by other kids would be safer here then in Juvie, but then I saw him and Martha, there is just something about his eyes. There’s a fire there. He just needs a little help, and no one wants to help him. I can damn sure give him a place to sleep until someone who knows how to help him is found.”

There was so much Martha wanted to say about that. She wanted to warn him about getting attached, she wanted to remind him that they had agreed no more long-term children. She wanted to remind him that by his own admission he already understood the boy better than his previous caregivers. She wanted to hold him until all of the weight of the world he put on himself disappeared. Instead she settled for saying, “It sounds like you have everything in hand. I’ll keep my flight tomorrow then. I love you George.”

“Love you too, dear.” The monotone beeping of the phone echoed in his ear when Martha ended the call.

It was now almost 12:30. Food was in order. On his way to the kitchen he sent Mulligan a text inquiring after Alexander’s bracelet. He quickly put together two turkey sandwiches, a glass of water and a glass of milk on a tray. Deciding to eat in the front of the TV again, he put the food in the living room and checked his phone on his way to the bedroom. _Foster mother says the boys broke it but she has some of the beads._

George considered this. It was the only possession the boy had asked after, likely the only one he had besides clothing. _Any chance of getting the beads?_

He watched the three dots for a moment. _It’s a half hour from the office. I can’t get away today._

_Can I go? He’s asked about it and it seems important._

George paused in the doorway. _He ASKED you about it?_ A pause and then, _She says you can come by any time if you leave him in the car. I didn’t know he could talk._

_Thank you._ George bit his lip before deciding how to answer the rest. _He writes. A lot._ Mulligan should know – after all the boy would be moving homes soon, and it was something that his long-term foster parents should know about going in. 

George shook the boy awake gently. Like when had tried to take his shoes off the night before, Alexander sat bolt upright and looked around frantically, pulling away from the point of contact. George quickly backed up and put his hands in the air. “Alexander?” George pointed to the journal and pen, which had been dislodged and was now on the floor. Alexander took the journal, and George handed him the pen. “Do you not want to be touched?”

Alexander scribbled for a moment and handed him the book. _It’s fine if I can see it coming. I startle easily I think._

“It’s no problem, son. I’ll try to remember that.”

He looked down at the book Alexander held out. _Not your son._

“Uh, right. I’m sorry so – er – bud.” George smiled at him and, to his immense relief, Alexander allowed his ear a slight smile in return. “I’ll try to remember not to call you that. Would you like to take a shower or a bath before lunch? I made us some sandwiches and I figured we could watch TV again if you would like.”

_Yes please._

George showed him the bathroom and picked out the cleanest looking clothes from among his grocery sacks. He knocked on the door and announced to Alexander that there were clean clothes just outside the door, then went down the hall to give the boy privacy. After about ten minutes, the water turned off. When Alexander did not immerge after ten more minutes, he knocked on the door. There was no response but he could thought he hear crying on the other side. “Can I come in Alexander?”

Now the handle turned and the door opened a crack. Sure enough, there was Alexander, face red and tears running down his cheeks. His long hair was an absolute disaster and left hand was cradled to his chest. He gestured wildly around his head as George took in the scene. “May I see your wrist?”

Alexander held out the arm that had been in a wrap and brace until now. There was an ugly dark bruise about an inch above his wrist. George picked up the bandage and started to wrap it again. While he worked Alexander tried to work his right hand through his hair. “Did they say if it was broken?” Alexander tilted his head to the side, made a face, then shook no.

George snorted. “Right, I’m sorry, that was a bad question. Is it broken?” Alexander shook his head again. “Sprained?” A nod. He finished wrapping the arm then slipped the brace over and fastened it in place. “May I help you with your hair?”

Once George had managed to detangle Alexander’s wild hair – and made a stop off at the bedroom to grab the journal – they made their way downstairs. George gave the remote to Alexander, who chose to continue the documentary where they had left off. George handed Alexander one of the plates. “Would you like water or milk to drink?”

Instead of pointing as George had expected, the boy said, “White,” in a soft and slightly horse voice. Only his soldier’s instincts prevented George from starting at the sudden sound. He thought for about a second how to handle the sudden speech from the boy he previously believed to be mute. Best play it off as normal, he decided, handing the boy the glass of milk. His ear was rewarded with another smile.

They ate to the sounds of the documentary. When it came to a break, George paused it. Alexander looked at him questioningly. “Do you remember you asked me about a bracelet?” Alexander nodded hesitantly. “I’m told it broke; however your prior foster mother thinks she has most of the beads and said we can go pick it up if you would like.”

_Can we fix it?_

“Of course. Why don’t you run upstairs and grab your shoes for me?”

Alexander did as asked, returning only a moment later. He handed George the journal as he sat down to tie his shoes. _Can you help me put my hair up?_

“Sure thing. How would you like it done?”

Alexander paused, pen to paper. He looked at George’s hairline, swallowed and set the pen down against the book. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and said, “Horse,” then immediately scrunched his face in disgust.

George found himself biting back a chuckle – the boy was definitely growing on him – as he considered the word. Alexander had scribbled something in the journal and held it out. George put up one figure. If “White” had meant milk, did “Horse” mean – “Would you like me to put it in a ponytail?”

This was obviously the right answer, as Alexander brought the journal back into his lap and beamed at the ceiling. As George ran his fingers through Alexander’s hair and brought all the strands together, Alexander handed him the journal again. Below _I meant to ask for a ponytail_ was written _I’m sorry, I know I’m not very smart. Thank you for understanding._

George hummed as he thought of how to best articulate what he wanted to say. “The ability to speak and intelligence are not related, bud. I think you’re a pretty bright young man, you just have some trouble with words.”

Alexander looked dumbstruck. George considered it was likely no adult in the foster care system had ever told him as much before. He wondered if any adult in the foster care system had ever even tried to communicate with the boy, and he found that the idea of Alexander being written off because he could not speak enraging. “Have you ever tried sign language?”

Alexander made another face. George realized all at once why he was so expressive – his facial expressions had been the only way for him to get across what he was trying to say. He took a steadying breath. Alexander’s eyes shot up to his ear in alarm. _Mama tried to teach me but I got all the words wrong just like –_ the end of the e trailed off in a long line as he evidently changed what he had been writing. _I’m sorry! Are you mad? I did not mean to make you angry with me. I’m so sorry sir._

George steadied the boys hands in his own much larger ones. Alexander hung his head, looking at the floor. “Relax, Alexander. I am not angry with you. I am upset that the other adults in your life have not tried to help you communicate.” He moved his head until he was sure that Alexander could see his expression and smiled softly. “Now, you’re saying when you tried to use sign language you couldn’t make the words make sense. Like when you speak?”

Alexander nodded, looking forlorn.

“Well, it’s a good thing you are such a good writer than.” He smiled gently. “How about when we go get your bracelet fixed you can pick out a few more journals of your own?”

Alexander smiled widely again and nodded excitedly.

The drive to the foster house was uneventful. Alexander only nodded, thoroughly unsurprised when George told him that his former foster mother had requested he wait in the car. George returned less then a minute later, a sandwich bag of beads in his hand. Alexander took the bag and studied it for a moment. _I’m missing a few. It won’t fit right_.

“We could pick up a few more beads at the craft store. It won’t be like it was but we could make it fit right if we try.”

Slowly Alexander nodded. _It will be new. New is not always bad. You are new. You are not bad._

“Quite right.”

Fifteen minutes later they pulled into the mall parking lot. George shut the engine off and turned to Alexander. “If you get separated for any reason, will you be able to tell another adult my name so they can find me?”

Alexander considered this. He screwed up his face and opened his mouth with the intention of saying George Washington. “Excellency,” came out instead. His eyes went wide.

George could not stop a small snort from escaping. “Not quite. Let’s try that again.”

Alexander pointed at George. “Excellency.” And then at himself. “Hamilton.”

“Okay, well that won’t work.” George ripped the last page of the journal out. On it he wrote. _If I am found please call George Washington_ and his phone number. “Put that in your pocket. If we get separated for any reason give that to an adult, understand?”

Alexander nodded. Then he grinned mischievously. “Excellency, yes,” he said with a giggle.

George smiled back at him as they got out of the car and headed toward the mall. The trip went off with little trouble. At the craft store they got a spool of wire thread, a new clasp and Alexander picked out a number of small beads with great concentration. At the register Alexander had frantically written an entire page of apologies about the cost before George realized what was happening and assured him it was no trouble at all.

Their second stop was to a stationary store, where Alexander looked longingly at a fountain pen in a display case. After receiving assurance that he knew how to write with one, George directed the salesman to add the pen to the small pile of journals they had picked out. He was careful to put himself between the total on the register and Alexander’s line of vision. Given the anxious reaction to spending thirty dollars at the craft store, he was quite certain Alexander would have panicked if he knew George had just bought him a two-hundred-dollar pen on a whim.

Before they left the mall George insisted on picking up a new pair of shoes – Alexander’s current pair had a few holes in the sole – against Alexander’s protests that he would be fine with shoes from Goodwill.

By the time they got home it was growing dark, and Alexander was looking distinctly pale again. George put a can of soup in the microwave. He poured it into a mug and brought it to the living room with the boy’s medications. Alexander sipped at the soup while George worked on putting together his bracelet. They finished about the same time. George fastened the clasp around Alexander’s wrist and took the mug. He made the looping motion with his hand again, and George handed him the journal. _Thank you. It belonged to my mama. It is all I have from her._

“You are very welcome Alexander.” They went upstairs together – it was early but both were tired from a night of little sleep. George grabbed a pair of pajamas from the dresser and went to change in his office. He would have to sleep on the couch or in the chair again, having not gotten around to cleaning out the spare bedroom. He returned to the bedroom to find Alexander standing by the nightstand.

“Come on, Alexander, lay down.”

Alexander shook his head. He pointed to the bed. “Excellency.”

The moniker was distinctly less funny now that George knew it was becoming a thing. “No Alexander. I can sleep in the chair or on the couch.”

Alexander shook his head again. He pointed to the bed. “Excellency.” He pointed to the chair. “Hamilton. Mini.”

George considered this. The chair probably was large enough for the boy to use as a bed. “Fine. But just for tonight. Tomorrow you are sleeping in your room and your own bed.”

Alexander smiled in victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The speech problem Alexander has is a type of aphasia. Aphasia can take many forms - in this case, in addition to a general aversion to speech he will often say a word related to the one he is trying to say instead of the correct word. The ability to process and understand language, as well as to read and write, is not diminished.


	3. In which Alexander cries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a successful first day, George was feeling confident. Then today happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave kudos or a comment. They are making my days!

George woke to the sun on his face. He was still for a moment, enjoying the warmth and trying to decide why there was a small tendril of anxiety in the back of his mind. He cast his eyes around the room. The armchair was empty save for a pillow. Alexander was missing. Suddenly wide awake, he went from his back to his feet in a single motion. From the new position he could see Alexander’s journal open at the foot of his bed. _Downstairs_ was all it said. Taking a steadying breath he put on a bathrobe and went to the living room. Sure enough the pre-teen was curled up in an armchair reading. “Morning.”

“Mercury.” And okay, George was not nearly awake enough yet to try and decipher that, although Alexander barely glanced up from the book so he figured it had not been pressing.

“Bored of the Civil War?”

Alexander waved vaguely at a second journal in reply. On it was written. _I hope you do not mind that I borrowed a book. I would like to keep watching the documentary together._ Alexander had anticipated his question and written a response long before George had asked it. That was new. How smart was this boy exactly?

“Hungry?”

Alexander made a face.

“Let me rephrase that. It is time for breakfast. Would you prefer toast, oatmeal or eggs?”

Alexander repeated the face, then held up two fingers.

“Good lad.”

George put a small pot on the stove and set about making oatmeal. As the water heated, he checked his phone. There was a message from Martha reminding him what time she needed to be picked up from the airport and one from Hercules Mulligan informing him that Alexander had a follow-up appointment with a pediatrician in an hour. _Sorry, I thought it was NEXT Thursday and wouldn’t be your problem._ He frowned at the – probably unintentional – implication that Alexander was a problem. He was very resolutely not frowning at the fact that Alexander would be with someone else by next Thursday.

He turned off the stove and grabbed a few granola bars from the cupboard. “Bad news,” he said, tossing one to Alexander. “You’ve got an appointment in an hour and we have to leave in twenty minutes if we don’t want to be late.”

Alexander marked the page in his book with a strip of paper he tore from the journal. He scribbled something down and handed the book to George. _Mr. Mulligan forgot about me._ George could only describe the look on his face as wounded.

George tried to think of something to say, a way to phrase that Mulligan was a busy man and only had a slight mishap of the calendar. Then an image of Alexander, head down and unable to communicate because no one had bothered to help him, rose to the front of his mind. He found he couldn’t find the words to make excuses to the child before he was gone up the stairs. He could hear Alexander moving in the master bedroom above him and took the cowards way out, retreating to the laundry room for clean clothes.

Precisely eighteen minutes later, just as he was deciding he would have to go and fetch the boy, he heard quiet footsteps on the stairs. Alexander was dressed, shoes tied and jacket on. His hair was still a mess. He held the brush in his hand and pointed at his head. “R-roll?” There were tears in his eyes as he addressed George’s shoulder.

George gently took the brush and started working it Alexander’s hair, humming as he went, hoping to calm the boy. He tried to think of what roll could possibly mean and frustratingly drew a blank. “It’s okay, no problem at all bud. Do you want a ponytail like yesterday?”

Alexander’s breath hitched into a sob and he shuddered a little. Clearly that was wrong. Roll, roll. Suddenly all George could think of were the Thanksgiving dinner rolls his mother made when he was a child himself. Hang on, that might be it – roll, bread, bun. “Do you want a bun?” Alexander nodded and his shoulders relaxed slightly as George quickly pulled his hair up.

He did not however, stop crying the entire ride to the doctor’s office, which they passed without speaking. George couldn’t decide if he should comfort the boy because he was crying or lecture him because needing to ask for help should not make him cry. The only thing he was sure of is that it would be entirely unfair to try to have the conversation while he was driving, as Alexander would not be able to respond to anything.

He was still crying in the waiting room, head down and now with George’s hand on his back. George felt thoroughly judged by the mother who gave him several dark looks before gathering her daughter with a tut and moving to the other side of the room. Alexander finally stopped crying as just as they were ushered into an exam room. The appointment went smooth – his various bruises did not look particularly alarming, and the doctor seemed satisfied with the range of motion in his wrist, though he did advise they continue with the brace for the pain. His only other comment was that Alexander’s temperature and heart rate were both mildly elevated, but he gave George a knowing nod towards Alexander’s blotchy, tear-stained face and declared it due to nerves.

They made a pit stop at the clinic bathroom where George ran a wet paper towel over Alexander’s face. He did feel a bit warm. Hoping the doctor was right that he was just overly worked up, George checked the time and noted with relief they would still make it to the airport to pick up Martha.

Traffic turned out to be on their side and they arrived over half an hour before the plane was due to arrive. Deciding to give him a treat after a rough morning, George pulled into the strip mall adjacent to the airport. “Would you like to walk around for a bit? Maybe pick out something new to read?” He gestured to the bookstore.

Alexander nodded with a small smile. George gave him instructions to pick out one book and set him free to wander the small store. He sent Martha a text _Nearby, text me when you land_ and absent mindedly thumbed through a magazine while he waited for a reply.

He was lost in thought, trying to figure out what had happened to turn yesterday’s cheerful and thoughtful child into the watery-eyed boy he had been dealing with all morning when a loud crash brought him back to the present. Alexander and another boy were grappling at each other’s arms. They had evidently knocked over a small display in the scuffle. Even as he watched, Alexander appeared to gain the upper hand. With his bad arm he pinned the other boy to the wall. He pulled back his good arm intending to sock the boy as hard as he could. George closed the distance between himself and the boys in an instant. He caught Alexander’s fist firmly in his hand, halfway to the boy’s face.

There was a moment of calm. He loosened his grip on Alexander’s arm. Then, all at once, the other boy threw Alexander off of him and a woman George had never seen before was suddenly six inches from his face and screaming obscenities. Alexander ripped his arm out of George’s hand and bolted.

”Alexander!” George took off after him, dragging the woman – who was now attempting to bodily stop George from leaving – toward the door. He straightened to his full height and looked her dead in the eye. “Unhand me.” He did not yell. The woman let go and shrank back anyway. He left the store. “Alexander?” He called at the top of his voice over and over, paying no heed to the dozens of heads that turned toward him from around the shopping center. The boy was nowhere to be seen.

He paced up and down the front of the store for a moment, hysteria building. He ran to the car, praying to any deity that might be listening for Alexander to be waiting for him there. Nothing. Conscious of the weight in his jacket pocket – Alexander’s journal and pen – he began to panic in earnest. He had lost his foster son. He had lost a boy who had no means of communication in a crowd of strangers. The boy could be anywhere and it was his fault. Anything could happen to him and it would be his fault. He took out his phone with a trembling hand. He dismissed a notification from his wife _Waiting at baggage claim. Where are you parked?_ and allowed himself just a moment to collect his thoughts – how could he even began to explain how badly he had just fucked up to a dispatcher – before dialing emergency services. Just as he went to tap the send button, he was interrupted by an incoming call.

On the power of muscle memory alone he answered it. “George Washington speaking.”

“Oh good.” Said a voice he did not recognize from the other end of the phone. “This might sound strange but, uh, this little kid just showed up out of no where and he gave me your phone number, and I just thought, he kinda looks like he could use some help and I would rather not have to call the police if I can avoid it.”

His knees went weak with relief. The note he had instructed Alexander to put in his jacket pocket the night before, _If I am found please call George Washington_ must had have still been there. “Where are you?” He got directions to a café near the edge of the shopping center. Another text came in from Martha as he ran. _Done. Where are you parked?_

He slowed to a walk and took a breath to compose himself before he opened the door. Something in his appearance gave him away to the staff, as the hostess took one look at him and motioned behind a partition before he could say a word. He walked around it and half sat, half fell to his knees.

Alexander was a mess. He was pale, eyes scrunched closed, hair falling all over his face even as he pulled more sections loose from his bun, huddled into a ball and pressed into the coroner. A desperate whine was coming from him. He did not look harmed in anyway – and George could never remember having ever seen a more beautiful sight. Heedless of his cry of alarm at being touched without warning, he tossed his jacket over Alexander’s head to shield him from all the wandering eyes. In the next moment pulled the boy into his arms and began to rock him gently. When he ran out of words to say and reassurances to mutter he began to count; first in English, then in French, and finally in Latin.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed there as Alexander’s whine slowly died into whimpers before finally going silent his body surrendered to exhaustion and he either fell asleep or passed out. Long enough that the café owner had cleared the section of restaurant around them. Long enough that his knee was aching from sitting on the cold floor. Long enough to have missed two calls from his wife, followed by a text that simply said _I guess I’m getting a cab then. Call me._ He could feel eyes on him when he finally gathered the boy in his arms and rose from the floor.

He nodded to the café owner in thanks. She smiled sadly in return, eyes lingering on George’s jacket where it was still covering Alexander’s face. George buckled the boy into the back seat of the car. Alexander did not wake, so George pulled the seatbelt until it locked around him to keep him upright for the drive. He sent a text to Martha _I’m so sorry sweetheart. Alexander had a bit of a meltdown and I was busy. We are coming home now_ and turned the car onto the freeway to head home.

Ten minutes before he turned off the freeway, a slightly strangled gasp from the back seat caused George to look in the rearview mirror. Alexander had woken up and was now sitting ramrod straight, his eyes darting frantically from side to side. “Hamilton.” He brought a hand to his mouth. “Yuck.” Then he leaned into the seatbelt and threw up half-digested granola bar on the floor mat, his hand and his new shoes. He retched painfully several more times as George brought the car to a stop on the side of the road. Apparently finished, Alexander allowed himself to hang limply from the locked seatbelt. “Hamilton yuck.” He said again, somewhat unnecessarily when George opened his door. He looked miserably at George and reached out a dirty hand in search of comfort. With the memory of thinking the boy lost for good so fresh in his head George found he did not mind. He took the boy’s hand, kneeled next to the car and pulled Alexander’s body to rest against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any and all mistakes. I had no one available to read over this chapter before posting, and I'm not great at catching my own errors.


	4. In which Martha meets Alexander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha is clearly a gift from above. George would be lost without her.

Fine tremors ran through Alexander as George held him. In the cool autumn air he felt far warmer than he had when George checked in the clinic’s bathroom. As he loosened his grip on George and his body relaxed George turned his attention to getting him home. “Do you think you’re done for now bud?” George felt a slight nod against his chest. He leaned an unresisting Alexander back into the car. His shirt was already soiled where Alexander had grabbed on, so he pulled it over his head and used the rest of it to wipe the worst of the mess off Alexander’s hands and face. He slipped off the boy’s dirty shoes and socks and helped him bring his legs out away from the puddle and on to the seat. “Ten minutes and we will be home okay?” Alexander nodded weakly and closed his eyes as George got back in the driver’s seat.

Martha Washington always prided herself on being an intensely practical woman. This was one of the things George loved most about her. After having just spent six days traveling for business and then being left at the airport, her reaction to her shirtless husband carrying a barefoot, vomit-stained child through the door was to jump to action without question, her own irritation with him forgotten. “I’ll go start the bath.”

As she went upstairs George carried Alexander to the laundry room and sat him on the dryer while he helped remove his dirty clothes. He covered him with a towel and slid off the boy’s pants. The sound of the bath running upstairs cut off. His attempt at removing Alexander’s shirt was less successful. “You’ve got to help me here bud.”

Alexander obediently raised his arms. “Soggy,” he muttered as George tossed the clothes into the washer and wrapped the towel around him.

“Yes, we’re getting you a bath right now.”

“No,” Alexander shook his head. “Soggy,” he said again. George picked him up and Alexander twisted around in his grip. “S-soggy!”

“I’m sorry Alexander I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

Alexander slammed his head into George’s shoulder, causing him to nearly drop Alexander and instinctively take a step backwards into the washing machine. “What the? What is wrong son?” He couldn’t help but wince at himself. Great, first scold a sick child, then call him the one thing he asked not to be called.

Taking advantage of George’s momentary distraction, Alexander reached into the washer and came out with his dirty pants. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket and dropped them back into the machine. “Excellency,” he said hoarsely, relaxing back into his foster father’s hold. “Hamilton black.”

And oh – George could not have felt any lower when he realized Alexander had been trying to save the paper from the washer – _If I am found please call George Washington_ – the paper Alexander was now clutching tightly to his chest. The one George had given him on a whim, the one which had saved him when he was lost, and from which he now seemed to be drawing comfort. The fact that he had panicked over a completely replaceable scrap of paper drove home to George how out of it the boy was.

He could hear Martha moving around in the spare bedroom, likely doing the cleaning George had neglected for the past two days. She had set out a cup of water, a toothbrush and clean towels on the bathroom counter. Bless that woman.

As George lowered Alexander gently into the tub, the boy’s head lolled against his arm. Alexander’s eyelids fluttered closed. The paper drifted to the floor. For a split second George froze, then training took over. Martha may be the more practical of the two, but George was always best in a crisis. He used one hand to support Alexander by the base of his skull, keeping his head above water. “Martha!”

He dipped his other hand into the water then ran it over the boy’s forehead. As he repeated the action Martha appeared in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s passed out and he’s really hot. Can you get the thermometer and see if we have any liquid Tylenol?”

Alexander began to shift slightly by the time Martha returned. George stilled his hand as Alexander’s eyes lazily blinked open. “Hey buddy, are you with me?”

He eyes drifted around the room for a moment before settling somewhere in the vicinity of George’s shoulder. “Mm- ‘cellency.”

That was passible at least. “That fever’s making you feel pretty crummy. Do you think you could try to take some Tylenol?”

In the moment it took for Alexander to realize he was being addressed again George had talked through a rough estimate of his weight and Martha was measuring out a dose. “Sip,” he whispered, eyeing the cup of water on the counter.

“Water after we’re sure you can keep this down.” George held the medicine cup to Alexander’s lips with his free hand. The taste seemed to rally him a little. He made an effort to sit up, taking some of his weight off of the hand George still had at the base of his skull. Martha disappeared back down the hall to the spare bedroom while George propped him up against the wall and set about cleaning the boy’s hands – the mere act of putting him in the bath water having rinsed away to worst of the grime from his legs.

Martha poked her head in the door. “Bed’s ready, dear.” She had a clean set of clothes in her hand. Together they managed to help a mostly limp Alexander out of the tub and get him dry and dressed. George tucked him into bed and kept one hand on his shoulder until his eyes drifted closed – this time in sleep instead of unconsciousness. George took a deep, steadying breath and released it, forcefully relaxing his shoulders after the tension of the last hour. Martha set the trashcan near the head of the bed before they both retreated to the hall. George felt momentarily unsure what to do with himself – as he often did once a crisis had passed – until he found himself being pushed into the shower.

When he emerged from the steaming bathroom fifteen minutes later he had to admit that he felt significantly better after the long, hot shower. Martha was waiting for him with a cup of coffee in the kitchen. She stood up from the table and gave him a long hug when he came in the door. “What happened George?”

His jacket, which he had abandoned in the car, was now hanging from the back of a chair. “One second.” He fished the journal and pen from the pocket. “Be right back.” He ran the items upstairs, taking a moment to grab the note from the bathroom floor. He set the journal and note upright on Alexander’s nightstand so that they would be seen as soon as he woke up.

When he got back to the kitchen he told Martha everything that happened over the past two days. He found that once he started talking he could not stop. He told her about their shopping trip and the delightfully sassy attitude the boy had displayed last night. About his momentary panic on waking up in an empty room. About his thoughts on the boy’s intellect. About the boy’s garbled speech, and his own poor attempts to interpret the meaning. His anger that the boy had been left trapped in his own mind, and his insane action in buying him the fountain pen. About how quickly he had grown accustomed to his lack of eye contact. He told her about the doctor’s appointment and the fight, losing the boy and finally the drive home.

It was quiet when he finally finished. After a few moments Martha put her hand on his arm. “You like him.” George could not tell if it was a statement or an accusation. Either way he did not deny it. “You’re thinking about keeping him?”

“You don’t even know him.”

Not a yes, but also not a no. Martha considered this. “You didn’t really know Jacky and Patsy when you agreed to marry me either.”

George sighed. Martha rarely spoke of her children. They had both died as young adults and left a child shaped scar in their lives. Taking care of foster children helped, giving Martha an outlet for her maternal impulses, but nothing could ever really heal the wound of her own children’s deaths. “That was different. They were yours. This is just a random child.”

Martha made an unsatisfied humming noise. “Maybe,” she answered. “Or maybe he’s your child and he just took a different path to get to you. Do you honestly think you would be happy handing him over to someone else?”

George tried to figure out how to answer her. He wanted to protest – this immigrant orphan was just a child that George was helping for a few days, that was all. Then he thought of handing Alexander back to Mulligan and never seeing him again and the words died before he could start speaking, so he said nothing.

After a moment Martha caught his eye. “Did he try to call you, ‘your excellency’ earlier?” She asked, the beginning of a smile around her mouth. This had the desired effect; George let out a small chuckle.

“Yeah he does that.” His phone rang.

It was Hercules Mulligan. “Hey General Washington, good news. We found a family that is willing to take him long-term. They have a pair of toddlers right now, but no older kids that could put him in a dangerous situation like the last house. I’ll be by to pick up Alexander in about an hour.”

And that was that. In the next ninety minutes George woke Alexander up and explained the situation to him. _Thank you for everything you’ve done for me_. He wrote. George smiled at him and told him to keep the pen. Martha gathered all his clothes into the grocery bags, giving the dirty ones from the washer a quick rinse in the sink before double bagging them, and set them near the door. A third bag of belongings was added to the two grocery sacks, this one containing the handful of journals from the mall. When Mulligan arrived, George explained that Alexander had been sick and told him the time they had given him medicine. Mulligan put a hand on his back, Alexander waved goodbye and just ninety minutes after George found himself desperately unable to lie to Martha and say he did not want to keep the boy, Alexander was walking out the door.

Martha striped the barely used sheets from the guest bed and ran the washer with them and the towels he used. George spent several hours steam cleaning the back seat of his car. He tossed Alexander’s shoes into the trash with a pang. It was too bad there hadn’t been time to clean them, he thought, remembering Alexander’s old duct taped pair that really had seen better days.

They sat down at the table for dinner. George took the plate Martha offered him. “It’s better this way, really.” He broke the stillness that had settled on the house as they ate. When Martha did not respond, he kept talking. “He’s only twelve. Taking him through to adulthood we would have been sixty. It would be better for him to be with a younger family.”

Martha set her fork down. “From what you told me about him he may end up having an adult guardian appointed to him after he ages out. Someone could be taking care of that boy for a long time.” Martha watched George’s reaction.

He nodded resolutely. “Exactly. Better a younger family than us.” 

Three uneventful days passed. Martha went back to work. George, on leave after a years long deployment, seriously considered getting a dog to help pass the time. He had lunch with his friend Gilbert Lafayette. “Special election soon for the open Senate seat. You could probably run for it.”

George laughed. “Bored of Jefferson already?”

Lafayette shrugged. He was currently press secretary/ policy director after managing a successful campaign for Thomas Jefferson, senator from Virginia. “Might be cool to work for an independent for a change. Different challenges and all that. See how many people we can diplomatically tell to go to hell. And besides,” he leaned over and took a handful of fries from George’s plate. “Jefferson is an ass. I regret everything I ever did to get that man elected. My last day is Tuesday. Figured I would give Lee a try and they’ll take anyone right now.” His last sentence was muffled by the fries.

George couldn’t help but scrunch his face up in disgust, though even he wasn’t positive if it was at the idea of Lafayette working for Representative Lee or his friend’s atrocious table manners. “Yeah okay, well if I ever decide to sell my soul to politics you’ll be the first person I would call.”

Lafayette swallowed. “You’ve already sold your soul to the army, how different could it really be?”

George fished around in his brain for something to change the subject with. “Hey did you know the new attorney at Martha’s firm is Philip Schuyler’s daughter?”

“Really? Tell me more. The man pisses Madison off something fierce.”

George lay in bed reading that night. He was determined to run his plan to get a dog by Martha. It would give him something to do with his days and with any luck they would all turn out as enjoyable as today. _Running late dear, don’t wait up_ Martha had sent him around eight. He fell asleep reading.

For the second time in a week, he woke abruptly in the middle of the night to total darkness and the ringing of his phone, Hercules Mulligan on the other end. “How quickly can you get to Fairfax Medical Center?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So funny story - the working titles on my original outline for three consecutive chapters (this one, the previous one and the next one) were: "Alex does some shit," "Everything goes to shit," and "George is sick of this shit." So apparently I was feeling super creative at the time. 
> 
> Also this will likely be longer than 8 chapters, but I will update the chapter count when I know for sure. I'm not as far as I planned to be at the end of chapter 4. 
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and comments so far. I love hearing from people :)


	5. In which the night is long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years later, George Washington, who survived one of the most brutal battles in modern history and led his country through a decade of war, would remember that phone call as the beginning of one of the worst weeks of his life.

In a perfect reversal of his reaction from earlier in the week, George was up and stuffing his free hand down the arm of a sweatshirt before he even consciously comprehended the question. “Fifteen minutes, what happened?”

He waved off Martha’s sleepy murmur of “-mmwahs goin’ on,” already pulling on pants and socks as Mulligan worked through what he wanted to say.

“It’s Alexander.”

“Yeah I figured as much,” he answered, bending down to give his mostly sleeping wife a kiss on the cheek. “Go back to sleep, I’ve got it covered.”

He pulled the bedroom door closed behind him and Mulligan continued. “He’s hysterical. The doctor doesn’t want to sedate him until they know the extent of his injury. Look I know he’s not your responsibility, but Martha told me that you can sort of understand him, and we think he might be asking for you anyway.”

“What injury?” A mere two minutes into the phone call he was starting the car and driving towards the gates at the edge of his property.

Mulligan sighed. “He had a seizure and fell from a top bunk. We think he hit his head on the nightstand on the way down. They need to calm him down enough to be able to get a CT to see what’s happening, but since nothing he says makes any sense we can’t evaluate his awareness and the neurologist wants to avoid sedating him if at all possible until he knows how badly he’s injured.”

There was silence as George processed this. Just a few days ago he had passed off a mildly ill but otherwise content child. Now said child was so badly injured he was being evaluated for brain damage and so confused he was apparently calling for George, someone he spent less than 72 hours with, to help him. “I’m on my way. Fifteen minutes at most.”

He hung up before Mulligan could reply. His knuckles went white as he gripped the steering wheel. He had been certain Alexander would be better off with a younger family, someone with experience handling neurodiversity. Even so, he hadn’t been able to get the child off his mind. Alexander had been his foster child for not even three full days, and in that time George helped him open up lines of communication that had been closed to Alexander since he entered the foster care system, just by listening to what his body was trying to convey without the words that failed him. Obviously he had been wrong in thinking Alexander would be better with his new family. One thing was for certain, he thought to himself as he turned down the street to Fairfax. He would not be making that mistake again.

At four AM the Emergency Department waiting room was nearly deserted. George paid no mind to the couple he passed on his way to the desk. The nurse behind the glass looked up at him as he approached. “I’m here for Alexander Hamilton.”

“ID please.” He handed it to her. “Are you a parent?”

“He’s in DCFS custody.” He took the ID back from the nurse. “His social worker is expecting me.”

She motioned him towards a door. “Go on through, take your first right and straight down the hall, he’s in trauma 1, right in front of the nurses’ station, can’t miss it.”

George thanked her as the light above the door turned green, signaling he could enter. He knew enough about ERs to know that being put in the room in front of the nurses’ station was bad news. On the other side of the door his pace quickened. He could hear Alexander screaming before the room came into view.

Mostly it was nonsense, slurred words with no discernible connection to each other. Wind and bank, money and fire, Kentucky and bag. And, repeated once in every three or four words, sometimes with the first syllable missing as it had been when George held his head above the bath, sometimes so garbled as to be almost unrecognizable. Excellency. George realized only now that he had doubted the truth of his words on the drive over, but Mulligan was right – Alexander had been calling for him.

George slipped past the half-drawn curtain at the trauma bay door. Mulligan was in the room with a half dozen others. Four of them were holding Alexander down as he tried to twist against their hands. George paid them no mind, other than to push aside the tech near the head of the bed to make room for himself. He had no clue what he was doing, but there was no time to figure it out. He would have to make it work somehow. Someone said something in protest, but he didn’t spare a moment’s thought to answer them. He bent until he was close to Alexander’s ear. “I’m here,” he murmured.

Alexander did not react to him at all. George looked him up and down. He was covered in blood, a large bandage around his head. His skin was flushed everywhere, so red he nearly seemed to glow, and all his muscles were tense as he strained against the hands. Before hopelessness could properly set in, George noticed Alexander had a familiar scrap of paper clutched in his hand and inspiration struck. “I need something wet.”

George slipped one hand behind Alexander’s head and gently squeezed the base of his neck. A wet towel was pushed into his free hand. George squeezed that too, much harder, so that he had a small handful of water. He dropped the towel and dribbled the water down Alexander’s forehead, dragging his fingers back and forth through the trail. Alexander stopped screaming. “I’m here, bud. I’m right here.” Slowly Alexander relaxed. So did the hands of the techs and nurses who had been holding him down. George kept dragging his fingers across Alexander’s forehead as the boy’s eyes roamed the room. He hummed gently. Alexander’s ragged breathing began to settle. “Are you with me bud?”

“Excellency,” Alexander mumbled, barely audible. Then, to George’s great surprise, Alexander met his eyes for the first time. He immediately slammed his eyelids closed and his face scrunched up as if to cry. His empty hand, now only loosely held by the tech, shot out of the tech’s grip. He wrapped it around George’s free arm – the other one was still under his head – and held on for dear life. His breathing sped up again. “Hamilton wrong,” he managed to get out around his tearless sobbing.

George was only fifty-fifty on what Alexander was trying to get across. With the child in no condition to write he addressed both possible concerns. “Hush Alexander. You’re going to be alright. You did nothing wrong.” Alexander shook his head.

“You’ve done nothing wrong.” George resumed the stroking pattern across Alexander’s forehead. “You’re going to be alright,” he repeated. “The doctor just needs to put you in a machine to take some pictures of your head. But you have to be calm and you have to stay really still. Can you do that?”

Alexander attempted to nod – he aborted the attempt with a whine. “Hold,” he gasped out. George heard one of the doctor’s whisper to the other, but he was too far way to make out what was being said.

“I’ll stay with you as long as I can, bud.”

The next few hours passed in a rush of tests, in and out of rooms and machines as the neurologist and intensivist conferred with each other. Nurses came and went, giving medications and drawing blood. At some point George was enlisted to help strip the bloody clothes from his body and replace them with a crisp gown. Shortly after, he was removed from the room. When he was escorted back in, Alexander was on his stomach instead of his back. As the room buzzed with activity around him, George’s world narrowed to the boy on the bed and the tiny, hot hand in his. He wasn’t entirely sure how much time had passed when the intensivist pulled a stool over, sat down and cut the bandage from Alexander’s head. He inspected the wound, then started to gently irrigate it. Alexander, either asleep or unconscious, did not react. George squeezed his hand gently anyway.

As he worked, the intensivist spoke casually, calmly, almost as if discussing the weather and not a child’s life. “We,” he indicated himself, the neurologist and a third doctor whose specialty George did not know, “Think it would be best for him to be moved to Children’s National. A helicopter will be here in a little while.”

George had been caught up in a literal explosive shockwave on two separate occasions. This metaphorical one stole the air from his lungs just as effectively. The fears of potential brain damage, forgotten in the wake of Alexander’s recognition, resurfaced. “We know,” the doctor continued in the same steady tone, “that he has meningitis. What we don’t know is how he got it, or how it can effect his brain.” He now looked up at George. “We don’t have a good understanding of his baseline brain damage. We can speculate on the cause, but the reality is that this is a new traumatic event for his brain, and we can’t predict how his body might react. They are better equipped to handle this sort of thing at Children’s.” He smiled gently. “In fact they are the best equipped. Dr. Bell is the best in the world, and your boy will be with him before breakfast.”

George looked at Mulligan, standing in the coroner of the room. For the first time since he arrived, he properly took in the man’s appearance. He looked defeated, tethered to the wall by a phone charger. He was wearing plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt with bloody fingerprints on it, his DCFS lanyard around his neck. Those were _Alexander’s_ bloody fingerprints on his shirt. Because, George suddenly realized, he had been the one to try to calm Alexander before they had called him. And, okay, George could see him clearly now. Not just an overworked cog in the shit-show that was the foster care system, but as another adult in Alexander’s corner. He had his own boys at home. George wondered what he had done with them, where they gone when their father rushed away to help someone else’s child in the dead of night. Though he had never spoken the thoughts out loud, he found himself acutely ashamed of every time he had assumed the worst of Mulligan or been annoyed at the inconveniences of being a foster parent.

Mulligan looked up from his phone and turned the screen towards George. “Emergency medical proxy and privilege to travel out of state.” It was a statement, not a question.

George would have been offended if it had been the other way. “Thank you.”

On the advice of Children’s National and armed with the knowledge that an infection, not an injury was behind his delirium, Alexander was lightly sedated for the trip. As the nurse prepared him, George fished his phone from his pocket to update Martha and found it was entirely unnecessary. _Stay with him,_ she had written. Another win for Mulligan.

 _They’re flying him into DC, to Children’s National._ The sun was rising as they emerged unto the roof of the hospital.

_What do you need?_

The flight team from Children’s National transferred him to the helicopter gurney. The intensivist was there, and yelled something at the flight nurse, though George could not hear anything over the noise of the rotor. He was handed a headset by one of the flight medics. “Alright sir, step up right this way.” The man’s voice came over the radio. “There’s a spot for you right here against the window, Amy’s going to help get you buckled in. We’ll get your son strapped in and we’re off. In about twenty minutes we’ll be landing at Children’s and Dr. Bell will be waiting to see his handsome face.”

George did not correct him. _To get him through this,_ he sent back to Martha _. And then to bring him home._


	6. In which George remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George can't help but draw parallels between his dead children and his sick foster child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning found in ending notes. Note that the tags have changed.

George was a strong man, and he loved Martha almost from the moment he met her. When he learned she was widowed with two children he stepped in to raise them as his own with no hesitation. George was deployed in a classified location when Patsy died from a seizure. It had taken three days for the news to reach him and nearly three months for him to return home. Patsy’s death was difficult – losing a child is never easy – but ultimately it was not surprising. She had been sick a long time, and they were just grateful for the years they had with her.

George and Martha raised two wonderful children together, and they died only a year apart.

Jacky’s death broke them fully and completely. He woke up one morning during his first deployment, strong and healthy as ever. His company was making a quick stop at the base where his step-father ran the whole show. George managed to sneak a few minutes of spare time to eat lunch with him. Jacky went to bed that night with a mild fever. He was never conscious again. George had been shaken awake with the news that his son had spiked a hundred- and- five-degree fever and an hour later Jacky was dead. The days, weeks, months and year that followed were even now a blur in George’s memory. It was only when he woke one day and realized he hadn’t seen Martha in days that he came back to himself and the passage of time returned to normal in his memory.

Slowly they had learned to forgive each other and themselves. Slowly they pieced their lives into something worth living again. Their children were dead, one of a seizure and one of a fever. They moved on, safe in knowledge they survived the worst that life had to offer.

Maybe that was why, when the hand George had been loosely holding jerked suddenly away from his grip he could almost feel himself shatter along the fault lines of the scars of his past. Alexander’s body jerked ominously against the straps once, then twice before the seizure began in earnest. There was an influx of noise over the headset, but George’s broken mind seemed to have lost the ability to comprehend speech. All he can think in that moment is of how his children died – a seizure and a fever – and if it was somehow poetic that Alexander was going to die from both.

He was still seizing when they landed three minutes later, though the movements were noticeably weaker and the skin around his mouth was turning a funny bluish-purple. As soon as the gurney was clear of the rotors Alexander was met by a team of people in scrubs. The unassuming man in the middle of the group injected something into his IV and within seconds Alexander’s body stilled. His face disappeared under a mask and they rolled him away. George had not even managed to get out of his seat by the time they were on the other side of the door.

The pilot materialized a moment later. He undid the buckles on the harness and pulled the headset from George’s head. He guided George toward the hospital door. George could tell the pilot was speaking but he did not have enough brain power available to decipher what was being said. He allowed himself to be guided into a small room with _PICU Family Conference_ written across the door. Then he was alone.

He took several deep, steadying deaths and closed his eyes. “This is different.” He whispered to himself. Alexander was at one of the best children’s hospitals anywhere in the world. Alexander was not dying in a hastily constructed Army base as his tent mates slept fitfully only feet away, unaware. He has not dying on his kitchen floor while a babysitter held him. Alexander was a proven survivor, and he would survive this too.

He wasn’t wearing his watch and there was no clock in the room. He took out his phone to see how much time had passed.

 _Okay._ Martha had replied half an hour ago. _I’ll go grease some wheels._ George hadn’t thought about the time they had spent separated in years. On a day like today – with the reminder of what life had forcibly taken from them smacking him in the face – he was weak with relief that he had not allowed his own stubborn pride to succeed in driving Martha away.

A light knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. The man who had met Alexander on the helicopter pad entered the room, followed by a second man and a woman. The first man gestured toward one of the chairs. All three of them sat down when George did. “Mr. Hamilton,” he began.

“Washington.” He cut the man off. “It’s General Washington. I’m not, he’s not…” He trailed off, cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m his foster father and medical proxy.”

“Understood. I’m Dr. Bell. I’m the Division Chief of Neurology. This is Dr. Ansari,” he indicated the woman, “She is our infectious disease specialist. And this is Dr. Jones, he is the Division Chief here in the PICU. The three of us will be Alexander’s primary care team. There will be a lot of people in and out of Alexander’s room moving pretty fast. This can be overwhelming, so if there is something you aren’t understanding you need to let one of us know. I can’t promise we can always stop and talk right away, but we will as soon as we can. Good so far?”

George nodded.

Dr. Bell went on. “I know what happened in the helicopter was pretty scary. Alexander’s seizure did not stop from the diazepam he was given by the flight team. We had to give him a second medication when he arrived. This medication paralyzed him temporarily, which allowed us to stop the seizure before it got out of control. The downside is that it paralyzes him entirely, including his lungs, so when you see him he’s going to be on a ventilator.”

“For how long?”

“We can talk more about that when we have a better idea of what exactly is happening. Fairfax sent us a cerebral spinal fluid sample. Dr. Ansari’s team is going to use that to figure out exactly what is causing the infection. Until we have that isolated we are going to treat him with a broad-spectrum antibiotic and try to bring his temperature down to a safer level. The CT they did at Fairfax doesn’t give me as much information as I would like. I want to get a contrast MRI, which will give me a clearer picture of what’s going on inside. He will be going downstairs for that in about fifteen minutes. I’ll take you to him to sit with him until then. We can talk more while he is downstairs.”

Dr. Bell led him out of the conference room. There was a nurse sitting at Alexander’s bedside when they arrived. “Jessica, this is General Washington. He is Alexander’s guardian. General, this is Jessica. She is Alexander’s nurse for today.” George shook her hand.

Dr. Bell and Jessica left the room. George sat down and ran his hand across Alexander’s forehead. He was covered in wires and tubes and he was perfectly still. The only sound in the room was rhythmic click-woosh coming from the ventilator. His eyes had been taped shut. He tried to remember back to his arrival at Fairfax, and Alexander unexpectedly making eye contact with him but he could not recall the exact color of his eyes. The idea that he might never know – because Alexander might never open his eyes again – rose to the forefront of his mind.

He was still crying when Dr. Bell and Jessica returned. George hastily scrubbed his sleeves over his cheeks in a failed attempt to erase the evidence.

Jessica wheeled Alexander from the room. Dr. Bell stayed. “It’s okay to cry you know. Every parent who comes on this unit cries.”

George shook his head. “He’s not my son. I have no right.”

Dr. Bell sat down to be level with George, the empty space where the bed had been between them. “You’re here and no one else is. That gives you every right to cry for him. I can’t tell you how many thousands of children have come in here over the years, and one thing is true of all of them General. They need someone to love them. They need someone to be in their corner. That’s all you have to do. Until you have to start making decisions it’s simple on your end.” He smiled and stopped talking, letting the words sink in.

“Now, while he’s gone, I was hoping to see if we can establish a baseline neuro function for him. The MRI should show us if there is any evidence of old brain damage, as well as show us if there is any new trauma from today. Once I have that I can get a better idea of what type of recovery Alexander can expect.”

George told him everything he knew about Alexander. The sum total of the information took just five minutes. He didn’t know the answers to Dr. Bell’s clarifying questions; he didn’t know if he had been sick like this before, hospitalized before, if his neurological defects were congenital or acquired, if he ever had a brain MRI before. At the end George felt like a colossal failure.

“And has he been sick at all, complained about anything at all in the past month?”

“I don’t really know, I’ve only known him for a week. But yeah, a few days ago he had a fever and he threw up a few times.”

Dr. Bell jotted something down in a notebook. “Did he recover from that? Ever get back to normal?”

“I don’t know. He’s been at another home since that evening.”

Dr. Bell continued asking question after question. Yes, Alexander liked to read. No, he could not use sign language. His favorite thing to watch on TV were documentaries. He had no gait problems. The bruises were from a fight.

Eventually Jessica wheeled him back into the room. She reconnected him to the room’s ventilator and monitors from the portable ones, and George was again left alone with nothing save the click-woosh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: major illness and hospitalization of a child, discussion of remote death of a child. 
> 
> Also has anyone else ever written something that refused to follow their own outline? I was supposed to be done with the hospital at the end of chapter four (clearly a bit too ambitious).


	7. In which a decision is made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some decisions are easier to make than others.

Alexander was sedated and ventilated for five very long days during which George’s world consisted of Alexander’s PICU cubicle, the PICU parent’s sleep room cot and the hospital cafeteria. Around noon that first day Martha arrived carrying a duffel bag of clothes, his toothbrush, comb, phone charger and laptop. They talked for hours, about everything and nothing, the business of the PICU fading to the background.

Eventually she had to leave – she had managed today off with no notice but she had a brief due first thing in the morning and the courts would not wait. They said their goodbyes. Martha bent down over the bed, whispered something in Alexander’s ear that George could not make out, then smoothed back his hair and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. The gesture was achingly familiar. George had a sudden vision of Alexander at home in the guest room that had once been Jacky’s bedroom. George could almost see him pouting in the corner and Martha bending down to plant a kiss on his temple, as she had always done with her own children when they were upset. Would he shy away from affection like the independent Jacky, or would he lean in and savor the moment like Patsy?

He blinked and the moment passed. Martha walked around the curtain and out of the cubicle. He was only alone a few moments before an aide popped her head into the room, informing him that the doctors needed to speak with him in the conference room. He followed her down the hall and found Dr. Bell and Dr. Ansari already waiting for him when entered the room.

Dr. Bell smiled at him. George was reminded of Lafayette’s colleague Aaron Burr – George was never quite certain what he was thinking at any given time – and it made him feel like he was on the back foot before the conversation even started.

Dr. Ansari wasted no time. “We believe we’ve isolated the source of the infection, which is good news in terms of how we can treat it.”

“I thought he had meningitis?” George asked.

“Yes.” Dr. Ansari continued. “But there are many different microbes that can cause it. We believe that his meningitis is secondary to a severe ear infection. His left ear drum has ruptured and he has an advanced infection. It is rare, but not unheard of for bacteria to make it to the brain from an ear drum rupture.”

“How does that change his treatment?”

“In terms of medication, we are culturing samples from this earlier lumbar puncture and from his ear to confirm our theory and to make sure the antibiotics are effective. We started him on vancomycin when he arrived. Vancomycin is one of the strongest and most broad antibiotics we use, and until we know for sure what bacteria is behind this it is the most likely to make progress in terms of the meningitis. We would like to add a second antibiotic called azithromycin. This is what we most frequently use to treat ear infections and in combination with vancomycin azithromycin has been shown to be particularly effective against well established infections, like Alexander’s.”

“Well established?” George tilted his head. “What do you mean by that?”

“You mentioned earlier that Alexander was vomiting and passed out several days ago.” George nodded, and Dr. Ansari went on. “It’s likely that was around the point at which his ear drum actually ruptured – many people experience vertigo that could cause vomiting and syncope shortly after the ear drum rupture in addition to the pain. He may have felt mostly fine for another day or two before the meningitis symptoms began, though he likely had some hearing loss. I understand you were not with him for those couple of days so we can’t really be certain.”

The feeling of having failed Alexander returned with a vengeance while Dr. Ansari was talking. Suddenly Alexander’s actions the morning of the day Martha had come home made sense. He had been up early because he couldn’t sleep from the pain. He hadn’t wanted breakfast because he had been nauseous. He had been so weepy because he was on his way to becoming seriously ill. “Why didn’t he say something?”

Dr. Bell – far more adept at reading George than George was at reading him – reached out from his own seat and put a comforting hand on George’s knee. “It’s very likely he didn’t realize how serious the situation could be. He could easily have written off the pain as an earache and written off his other symptoms as uneasiness with being somewhere new or residual shock from the injuries he got in the fight. You have nothing to gain from blaming yourself.”

George nodded.

Dr. Bell smiled again, and this time is seemed more genuine. “Now.” He clapped his hands together. “Remember how I told you this was all pretty simple until you had to start making decisions? Well we have two of them for you. The first one we think is probably pretty easy.”

Dr. Ansari turned her tablet toward George. “This is what your ear looks like. This membrane here is what people call the ear drum. This is what Alexander has ruptured. That means that his outer ear,” she pointed to one side, “and middle ear,” and then the other, “are both infected. Normally the ear drum repairs itself within a couple of weeks. We think that is still likely to be the case. However Dr. Jones and myself consulted with our Ear, Nose and Throat specialist and we all agree that it would be safest to put a tube in. It’s called a tympanostomy tube, it will span the membrane and allow for the infection to continue to drain as well as equalize the pressure between the two sides. Most of the time the tube will fall out on its own in about six months. We can do the procedure fine with sedation he’s on now. It’s very routine, and we believe it will give Alexander the best chance at healing without hearing loss.”

George nodded. That, at least, had been an easy decision.

Dr. Bell took the tablet from Dr. Ansari. “Okay, my turn.” He flipped the tablet towards George, who could not decipher exactly what he was looking at. “This is from the MRI of Alexander’s brain that we just completed. Mostly we saw what we expected.”

“Mostly?”

And there was that unreadable smile again. “Look here.” Dr. Bell circled an area. He brought up a second image and circled the same area. “This is the occipital bone – the base of the skull. Normally it looks like this.” He showed the second picture. “Alexander’s occipital bone has an area here that does not look like it should.” He pointed to the first picture. “In my opinion, this is indicative of an old skull fracture. The bone has healed, but part of it seems to be displaced, likely it did not heal correctly.”

George could almost feel the world tilt sideways. “A skull fracture?” He parroted faintly. “How does that happen?”

“It’s impossible to say without the report from the time of the injury. Most likely it was caused by massive trauma – the occipital bone is actually fairly difficult to fracture. Normally we would get a history from the patient to determine what happened but…” Dr. Bell trailed off.

“But what?”

He sighed. “From the way the bone is healed, I would guess that this fracture is at least ten years old, maybe more. Given that he’s only twelve, he likely doesn’t remember the event. We could ask family, but that isn’t an option here, and there is nothing in the medical records we received from the state that indicates a brain injury, so we can only guess at what happened. Most commonly this type of fracture, in the absence of damage to other bones of the skull or cervical spine, is the result of a direct blow to the back of the head.”

George felt his brain scrambling to keep up as Dr. Bell plowed on. “We also noticed a large amount of diffuse, and thankfully very minor, scar tissue on his dura mater, near the current areas of inflammation. From what we know, I now think that this is likely not Alexander’s first time contracting meningitis.”

George swallowed. This had happened before? “What makes you certain?”

Dr. Bell sighed. “We aren’t certain, it’s just a hypothesis. There is some association with occipital damage and recurrent meningitis. We don’t yet understand the exact mechanism, but it does seem likely that damage to the base of the skull makes a person far more susceptible to this type of infection. Also, given what you were able to tell me about Alexander’s neuro-defects combined with the scar tissue on his dura mater, I think it’s very likely he had meningitis at least once before, while his brain was still developing the ability to speak. If I had to guess, probably around the same time as the fracture. The infection could have interrupted the process of forming neural pathways to certain parts of his brain without affecting those that were already formed. In his case, the speech center was affected, because that process was not yet complete. Since his fine motor controls and his ability to process speech are not affected, we can guess he was somewhere around two years old.”

“That brings us to the decision.” Dr. Bell put the tablet down so he could look at George. “Unless the occipital defect is corrected, he is at high risk of contracting meningitis again. However, the surgery to repair that defect is not without substantial risks. We would have temporarily remove the damaged section of the skull, apply a bone patch to fill in the area with the defect, and then return it and allow the area to heal. I don’t want or need an answer now,” Dr. Bell gave George’s knee a squeeze. “But you should be thinking about it. Even if you did decide to move forward, he would need to be completely healthy and free of any signs of infection before we would consider it.”

“And if he doesn’t have the procedure done?”

Dr. Ansari took over. “You would need to be very diligent. Any time he is sick at all – even a slight fever – he should have a lumbar puncture done to ensure he is not developing another brain infection, and he should be treated aggressively with antibiotics instead of conservatively. Each bout of meningitis is usually worse than the one before it, and the older he gets the worse his chances are. Given what we are assuming about this particular bout, his chance of a complete recovery is about ninety percent. He has about a five percent chance of permanent complications – further brain damage or seizures being most likely, and there is a morality rate of about five percent.”

George could feel tears forming in his eyes. He could not lose another child.

Now it was Dr. Ansari who put a hand on his knee in comfort. “I know that sounds bad, but Alexander has the best chance here. And we found out what was going on now, while he is young. If he was ten years older the mortality rate is almost thirty percent once the infection takes hold. Knowing all his information will give you a chance to keep ahead of things in the future, either by doing the surgery or monitoring his health more closely. This is the best time in his life for this problem to have been uncovered.”

They talked for a few more minutes, and George signed consent forms for new medications and the ear tube. He went back to Alexander’s cubicle feeling like his entire world had changed, but the boy in the bed had not changed at all. He settled into the chair, resting his head against the wall. The click-woosh slowly lulled him into sleep.

He was woken by a new nurse – David – who explained that the ENT surgeon on-call had arrived and Alexander was being taken down to surgery.

George blinked down at his watch. “At ten in the evening?”

David chuckled lightly. “Well, when the Division Chiefs of Neurology and PICU say emergency it usually gets things moving pretty quickly.” He gave George a reassuring smile. “Let me show you to the parents room before I take him down. The cots aren’t particularly wonderful but I have it on good authority they’re a great deal more comfortable then these chairs.”

David showed him to one curtained off area, the number on the wall matched Alexander’s cubicle number. “At some point we realized it was easier to find the right parents if we numbered the beds.” He whispered. The room was mostly quiet, a few hushed whispers and the occasional squeaking of a cot the only sounds.

George laid down on the cot running over this afternoon’s conversation with Dr. Ansari and Dr. Bell. He had not seen Dr. Jones all day, but David mentioned he had spoken to the ENT. Hospitals, like airports, had a certain hurry-up-and-wait quality to them, and George was sure he would not be getting any more sleep that night knowing Alexander was in surgery.

To his great surprise, he was shaken awake by David a few hours later with the news that Alexander was back in the PICU. “Surgery went fine. Just wanted to make sure you knew. Get some more sleep, he just got back from the recovery room and someone will come find you if something changes.” George complied.

George spent most of day two watching the Civil War documentary on low volume in the chair beside Alexander, thinking that if he was at all aware of what was going on around him at least he would know he was not alone. Dr. Bell was not in, but Dr. Ansari appeared around noon to tell him that the cultures had identified the species of bacteria, and she was certain the antibiotic combo Alexander was on was the correct one. A new nurse came and went several times an hour. As George was leaving the PICU with the intention of grabbing a quick bite to eat downstairs an aide stopped him, saying he had a visitor in the PICU conference room.

Thinking it would be Martha again, George was momentarily taken aback when he opened the door and did not recognize the woman. She had a hamper with her, which she handed him. “I’ve been told Alexander is being placed elsewhere. I brought his things so I could get the room ready for someone else.” George’s initial reaction to seeing Alexander’s foster mother was anger – this was the woman who was supposed to be taking care of him while he had gotten so sick. But then his rational brain prevailed, taking in the tears in her eyes and the hamper (a definite upgrade from the grocery sacks Alexander had left George’s own house with) and he found himself taking her to see him after he dropped the hamper off in the parent’s room. She stayed only a few minutes, and when she left he realized he had not even learned her name.

On the morning of day three George was woken by Jessica, Alexander’s nurse again today and escorted yet again to the conference room, where Dr. Bell, Dr. Ansari and Dr. Jones joined him. They explained that Alexander’s labs were starting to improve, and while his temperature had not lowered, they thought he was on the right track. That afternoon they had him take a sedation vacation and do a breathing trial – George thought he might have a heart attack when the ventilator was turned off and alarms immediately starting chiming, but all three doctors seemed pleased with the results.

On day four Alexander’s temperature finally started to come down. It still hovered just over a hundred, but he no longer felt burning to the touch, just warm. He did a second breathing trial in the afternoon, and this time several minutes passed before alarms started ringing. Today his visitor was Martha, who sat with Alexander while George grabbed a shower in the bathroom off the parent’s room. She told him she talked to Mulligan about them fostering Alexander long term, and she expected that he would probably have good news when they spoke next. “I just told him the truth – we love the boy, and you’re already attached. Where is he going to find another family that will be better for Alexander?” She was so confident she insisted on leaving with Alexander’s hamper, though she did leave a clean set of clothes “for him to come home in.”

Sure enough Hercules Mulligan, looking a fair bit better in his typical pinstripe suit than he had looked in the bloody pajamas he was wearing the last time George saw him, appeared around the side of the curtain a few hours later. “Mrs. Carter told me she came to see you.”

“Who?”

“His last foster mother.”

George nodded. “Yes, she wanted to drop off his things. She actually seemed like she cared though.”

“She does. She wasn’t against keeping him. Most of the time there’s a medical emergency like that the foster family runs for the hills, but she wanted him to stay. She only backed down when she knew there was another family asking for his long-term placement.”

George scoffed. “Not meant to be parents if you can’t handle your child being sick.”

Mulligan smiled. “You and Martha seem to be handling things as well as could be expected.”

George gave him a rueful smile. “Well unfortunately we’ve been down this road a time or two.”

Mulligan studied him for several long moments. “Yes, I suppose you have. Are you sure about him? He’s got no family left except the father we can’t find. You take him, our goal will be to make sure he stays put for the next eight years.”

George found himself reaching for Alexander’s hand. “I’m sure.”

“Alright then,” Mulligan pushed away from the wall. “Martha was insistent but I had to check. This boy has been through enough, it’s time he finds a place to settle. He’s all yours. You check in every couple of days until he’s out of the hospital, after that I’ll be out of your hair for three months.”

That night, George lay awake on the cot in the parent’s room, trying to put his feelings into words. Finally he settled on texting Martha instead of calling her, but he still couldn’t properly express himself. _Thank you_ was all he ended up sending.

His screen lit up a moment later _I’ll always fight for our boy._

He smiled into the darkness of the room. _Our boy_ , Martha had written – not the boy, not your boy – _our boy._ It felt right, and he drifted to sleep with thoughts of his family dancing across his consciousness.


End file.
